Retrospection
by Mr. Osborne
Summary: “It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster.” - Rated T, but the rating will change to M at a certain point much later in the story.
1. Prologue

Title: Retrospection

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Science-Fiction

Summary: "It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster."

Rating: T

Characters: David Webb/Jason Bourne, Pamela Landy, others.

**Prologue**

At a house in the pacific northwest, a man sat at the kitchen table reading through the latest issue of Time Magazine. He didn't much care for the sugar-coated media, but the article on an actor's latest philanthropic pursuits helped him pass the time, and maintain his cover.

He was handsome, clean shaven, in his early fifties, with salt and pepper hair that he refused to dye as he considered it dishonest. He was, at least in his own opinion, the definitive American family man with a typical name: Oliver.

It was not his real name, of course. He gave that up years ago when he started his rather unique career: the improvement of National Security via indirect means. Everything else was a disguise, a cover, for his real work. And for years, his work had proven beneficial for his country without fail.

A knock at the front door of his two story ranch style house brought little reaction from the man; he had been expecting his visitor. If he really was capable of showing emotion, there would have been a frown on his face. He had been dreading this meeting ever since he first heard her name. The name of a person who would undermine everything he and his few trusted colleagues had spent their lives tirelessly working toward.

He answered the door to let his visitor inside, exchanged the usual pleasantries and retired to the den, which was sound-proofed and regularly swept for bugs.

The man prided himself on thoroughness.

The visitor was at least ten years older than Oliver was--near retirement age--but the stresses of his last job made him appear older than that. Unlike Oliver, his face had the appearance of worn leather, typical for a man who had served in the American Navy before... changing careers. There was little point in reviewing the past of a man who he already knew so well. What they were doing in his den had less to do with who they really were and more about the situation they were about to discuss.

Oliver knew from the visitor's face just how serious the situation was shaping up to be. "I take it the situation in D.C. has not improved."

"Correct. She's been making much more progress than anyone expected," his voice was a mixture of pride and disdain. "They only good news is that the current administration could care less about what she's doing. What she's trying to do will take a long time to get through all the red tape--well past the end of the current administration. The bad news is that the next administration is definitely going to listen to her and run with her suggested changes."

The person suggesting the changes was root of their problem, and the reason for the visit. Nearly two-and-a-half years ago, a very promising government program was exposed to the public, one that had real teeth and helped protect the American public and their way of life from their enemies. Countless years, untold man hours of work, and hundreds of millions of dollars of taxpayers' money were lost thanks to a Girl Scout and a now-dead former Asset simply because they couldn't accept how the real world worked.

Despite the anger Oliver's visitor obviously felt toward their mutual "problem," the blame for the program's blow-back and exposure didn't lay entirely at their feet. The program's director, and his predecessor, shouldered most of the responsibility for the failure.

Ward Abbott, the original architect and director of Treadstone, had selfishly wielded his power to make himself and a Russian oil magnate rich. While he was legendary in securing funding and good at choosing people who did their jobs, and who did them quite well, the same couldn't be said of his successor.

Noah Vosen, the former (and now incarcerated) director of the program Blackbriar, Treadstone's successor, was far worse than Abbott ever could have been. Unlike Abbott, who was careful and had people who worked for him that were also careful, Vosen had turned out to be an unmitigated disaster.

It started when the program was first leaked in early 2005 to Simon Ross, a reporter for the Guardian that wrote columns on national security. A very foolish phone call, over unsecured lines and caught by Echelon, brought Ross to Vosen's attention. It was the keyword "Blackbriar" which the reporter had been stupid enough to mention in the conversation with his editor. Vosen's plan, at least initially, was to place Ross under surveillance, locate and take out the source. It was sound thinking up to a point when he began to make fatal errors in judgment.

Vosen made the mistake, understandable as it was at the time, that Jason Bourne, a former operative from Treadstone that went off the reservation, was Ross' source and tried to take them both out. It ended in New York City when Bourne jumped off the roof of the now-defunct SRD facility and into the East River below--his body never found despite an exhaustive search. The visitor had always suspected that he may still be alive, but without so much as a rumor, there was nothing to support that thought; he had enough problems as it was. Her work was going to undermine theirs even further.

Disastrous as Bourne turned out to be, it was nothing compared to the person who helped him. Ironically, the visitor's plan to bring her in on the operation as a scapegoat had backfired. Instead, he had put her in just the right place to bring everything crashing down.

A Girl Scout named Pamela Landy.


	2. Awareness

Title: Retrospection

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Science-Fiction

Summary: "It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster."

Rating: T

Characters: David Webb/Jason Bourne, Pamela Landy, others.

**Awareness**

Fire.

That feeling struck her the strongest.

No, not fire. Being _on fire_.

A horrible sensation that made her feel like every fiber of her being was burning away from the inside out. She tried to scream, but in her nightmare no sound came out beyond a strangled gasp as her damaged lungs could no longer move any air in or out on their own.

_A nightmare._

She did scream when she woke up, and found that she could breathe on her own just fine. In fact, she was hyperventilating before she got a hold of her senses, took deep breaths and calmed down. Though sweaty, she wasn't burning.

In fact, now that she had shrugged off the remnants of sleep, she realized that she had absolutely no idea where the hell she was.

Pamela Landy untangled herself from the bed sheets, brushed aside her long ash-blond hair from her face and looked around—getting her bearings.

The bed wasn't hers, nor the pajamas she wore—a pair of gray yoga pants and a soft gray t-shirt—now soaked in sweat. Yet the bed, while foreign, was comfortable, and the style of the bed frame, sheets and comforter all looked like things she would have chosen for herself.

The room was spartan, simple, yet somehow seemed to fit her sense of style and taste. Simple warm tones of blues and yellows lined with light oak wood trim.

It had a high ceiling, light hard wood flooring with simple rugs in pleasing patterns that complimented the rich wood, exposed wood support beams and two ceiling fans. A fireplace set in the wall directly across from the foot of the bed was surrounded by a simple slate-colored stone facade and mantle. A large skylight was centered over the bed, affording a view of the sky. Light streamed in from a set of bay windows that covered the entire wall to the left and a quarter of another wall, and were shielded by light-colored drapes that provided privacy while adding to the open-air feeling. The opposite two walls were windowless and had two oak wood doors. The whole area appeared to be about 20'x 20' x10' –very generous dimensions for any room. Apart from the lamps on the bedside tables, there didn't appear to be any other lighting.

There was no phone or television to be seen anywhere. Besides the lamps, the only other sign of technology in the entire room was a small computerized clock on the bed side table A larger radio sat on the bookshelf in the corner; the type that offered pleasing sound in a small wooden cabinet with an LCD display screen and controls. Facing one of the windows was a plush easy chair in an off-white color. On the opposite side of the fireplace was a desk with a padded chair, also in an off-white.

Much of the windowless wall space was bare, but there were a few pieces of art that, while unfamiliar, were pleasing to the eye and went with the room's decor. There were no personal items or pictures anywhere to be found, nor any luggage.

A look down revealed a gray and pink checkered flannel robe on the foot of the bed within easy reach along with a pair of slippers on the floor; no doubt her size.

_What the hell happened? Where am I?_ _I was in D.C., heading for the lobby... then_.

_Nothing._

_Shit._

With questions that had no answers, the first step in finding them was to get out of bed.

Placing her bare feet on the wood floor—which felt surprisingly warm—she skipped the robe and slippers. As comfortable as they looked, she needed to be able to move quickly if she ran into trouble. Besides, she felt anything but comfortable_. _She started by slowly panning around the room.

Behind the bed, set in the center of the room, was a dresser flanked by two doors and a vanity. Directly to the right was a third door.

Cautiously, she choose a door and opened it to find a large walk-in closet. A flick of a nearby light switch brought its contents to light. A row of jackets, suits and dresses lined a rack; again, styles that she liked and appeared to be in her size. On the floor were shoes arranged in a neat row, everything from pumps to sandals, boots and sneakers; no doubt the dresser and vanity contained other pieces of clothing and accessories. She closed the door and tried the next one and couldn't help but let her jaw drop. Inside was an expansive bathroom, decorated similarly to the bedroom, smaller but no less extravagant than the room she resided in.

A large bathtub took up the center of the room, an equally large glass-block enclosed shower stall took up a corner. Light was streaming in from a set of skylights and a floor-to-ceiling window in one corner of the room, also covered with a gauzy off-white drape to maintain privacy. A nicely sized sink and vanity in a pleasing light granite and light oak wood took up a sizable part of the far wall, with drawers and cabinets for towels and other items. A rack holding terrycloth towels, in a pleasing shade of yellow, were already set out. A weaved laundry hamper was set to the right inside the door. A check inside revealed it empty which, while not surprising, was unsettling.

_What happened to the clothes I was wearing?_

Regardless, she'd end up using the shower eventually but decided to finish her search. The last door, which could be locked from the inside, opened into a lighted hallway. A few seconds of listening brought no sign of life nearby—in fact, no sound at all. Silently, she shut the door and locked it.

A careful peek though one of the curtains revealed a lush forest and a lake—most likely freshwater—with no sign of civilization beyond. The country side appeared to be made up of gently rolling hills and the usual plant life you'd expect to find in North America or Europe.

She continued her search. The desk, vanity and dresser were like the rest of the room and bathroom: nothing that she recognized as her own, but had plenty of things that she would likely use and were her style. The desk had pens, pencils, erasers, and writing paper. Predictably, the vanity and dresser held several pieces of jewelry, undergarments, and other typical accessories.

Whoever had chosen her clothing had done an excellent job of choosing styles she liked, while staying away from anything ostentatious or daring. It even extended to the undergarments and swimsuits. They were simple styles that were comfortable—flattering, but not racy or revealing.

Finally, she sank down in a chair in front of the vanity and stared at the reflection in the mirror. The image reflected back at her was pale and disheveled; exactly the sort of appearance of someone who had slept in a strange bed and woke up from a nightmare. She stared at that mirror for a long time—willing to find an answer—but ended up stumped. Nothing made sense.

She had to keep moving.

Since her hosts were gracious enough to provide her with everything, she was going to take full advantage while she could.

After selecting some clothing—a pair of blue jeans, burgundy v-neck cashmere sweater, black leather jacket, socks, underwear and a pair of gray and black low-topped trail running shoes—she went into the bathroom and locked the door.

Everything needed to freshen up were either already set out for her or easy to find. Despite the pensiveness she felt, the shower had done wonders in relaxing her body and clearing her head. Once dried and dressed, her still damp hair tied back in a pony tail, she began to seriously assess her situation.

She was uninjured, unarmed and with no means of communication (that she could find yet). So far, she hadn't encountered any form of restraint or threat. She'd need to see more of the ground, of course, but— _I may be trapped here, _she dreaded_. _

On the vanity were some personal items: perfume (her brand no less), a woman's Tag Heuer, a pair of dark sleek sunglasses, and a black folding pocket knife. The watch and clock radio both showed the time to be 7:43—morning, judging by the rising sun. After carefully inspecting each item, she pocketed the knife and sunglasses, donned the wrist watch, then cautiously began her trek outside her bed room.

The hallway was decorated similarly to the bedroom with the same light oak, but in a darker butter yellow paint, lit by indirect lighting that lined the floor and ceiling with no other decoration. Directly across from her door was another door, one end of the hallway lead to a yet another door, while the other end lead toward an open space.

Silently closing the door behind her, she padded toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. With her ear pressed against solid oak, she heard nothing. Finding the door unlocked, she opened it to find a large walk-in linen closet. Towels, comforters, blankets, sheets, pillows and pillow cases were neatly folded and arranged inside. She tried the next door that was set directly across from her own.

It was another bedroom, similar in size and style to the one she woke up in, only decorated in darker shades of blue and cherry wood with no windows except for a group of skylights set in the ceiling directly over the bed.

The bed was still made, and the room's stillness led her to conclude that no one had resided in the room recently. But it did reassure her that this place may not be a prison—at least not one tailored for her.

Beyond the open end of the hallway was a balcony that ringed the side of what was obviously the living room. One wall was lined with large floor-to-ceiling windows that put the entire forest beyond on grand display which were neatly bisected by a stone fireplace. A look down found plenty of wooden furniture in a simple, tasteful style and comfortably arranged around the room, which was cavernous in size and seemed to span fifty feet across with the walls arranged in a semi-circle.

A couch and chairs faced a large flat screen television. A winding staircase off to her right presumably led down to the living area. Beyond the staircase was a combined lounge and library area with its own set of furniture and an outdoor balcony. Set in its own alcove, the entire wall was lined with bookshelves and books, a desk, conference table and chairs. There was even an elevator.

The library was filled with books, mostly fiction and non-fiction, but also technical references and periodicals. There was a globe and world atlas on a nearby table, a telescope and a book on astronomy were set in a corner facing an unobstructed view of the sky. At least it would keep her mind occupied.

With still no indication that there were others in the house, she cautiously made her way down the staircase.

Beneath the balcony was a combined dining area and kitchen. Another little radio, this one in a piano black with a silver face, went with the kitchen's dark granite counter-tops, dark oak cabinets, and modern stainless steel appliances.

There were still no phones that she could find. But, there appeared to be at least two doors that led outside—one in the kitchen and one on the opposite side of the living room. She selected the one in the kitchen and cracked it open to peer out. The outside temperature was cool enough to require the sweater and jacket, but not uncomfortably so, and the air smelled fresh. She could hear nature and wildlife; a fact that made her realize that the house was sound-proofed.

With the door closed and locked, she checked the kitchen. Everything was where she expected to find it, and there was plenty of food in the refrigerator and cupboards; it was too good to be true.

_Much too good to be true, _she thought._ This could easily be my place. It's too familiar, too easy, too comfortable. Comfortable_, that was what made her feel so on edge. The entire house felt like a trap, and she felt like she had already fallen into it, or was about to.

At the kitchen's island, she turned on the radio, and quickly realized that it was one of those computer-based units that streamed audio from other storage devices or the Internet. It didn't take long for her to figure out how to use it. This one appeared to be connected to an in-house server and was playing back stored music, in this case a pleasant classical piano piece. Though it also had AM and FM tuners, a scan through both bands brought only static. She switched it off and went into the living room.

On the oak wood coffee table was the television's remote, which she picked up. The television instantly sprang to life, presenting her with a computer-driven menu. It was the type that you'd see in a smart home, and this one showed various categories, from lighting to movies,but no phone or Internet software that she could find. While there were plenty of prerecorded TV shows and movies, there were no live feeds or channel guides.

Everything looked new, with no signs of age or wear—even the clothes she wore felt new though they smelled freshly laundered.

Looking around, there were a few more doors in the kitchen area. One was a supply closet with various food stuffs, cleaning products and other items, another smaller closet for boots and other types of outdoor clothing, and one that had a flight of stairs that led down.

After a flick of another light switch, the area that she now stood in was a cavernous garage and work shop. Unlike the rest of the house, this area was clearly meant to be utilitarian.

The space itself had a high ceiling, the layout was rectangular, floors were sealed concrete, the walls were painted a functional white, the lighting was brighter and harsher—needed since there were no windows to allow natural light in. There were rolling tool cabinets, peg boards from which hung every hand tool imaginable, several work tables and even a hydraulic lift—all clean and showed no sign of use or wear. What really caught her attention were the vehicles parked in front of her.

There was a snowmobile, a snow cat, and a white four-wheel-drive four-door pickup truck. After a walk around to look for anything out of the ordinary, she cautiously opened the passenger side door and checked the glove-box and center console. There were no keys, which came as no surprise, nor were there registration or insurance cards; not even a map. Every nook and cranny in the pickup was clean. A look under the hood and underneath all appeared as if it rolled off the showroom floor. If she could find the keys, she would at least have transportation.

None of the other vehicles had keys in them, nor any other documentation besides the owners manuals. Nothing was found in the tool cabinets or work table drawers. There were plenty of supplies, from motor oil to spare parts and even the factory service manuals for all the vehicles present—even the brand-new Toyota—but still no sign of keys or registrations. In fact, no license plates or registration numbers at all. The serial and VIN numbers were present, but they were meaningless to her.

There were a few other doors. One led outside, one led to yet another storage area, another was to the elevator machinery, yet another led into a series of crawl spaces under the house and one to what was obviously the home's utilities.

A single floor-standing equipment rack held a server, a network switch, and a few other pieces of equipment that she couldn't quite recognize. There were gas and water pipes, electrical conduits, breaker panels, and various other pieces of equipment. There were no obvious means of access to the server; there was no monitor and keyboard. There were status displays, but their functions were limited. She could turn the equipment on and off, but little more than that. Whoever put her here didn't want her to dig too deeply; at least not into the computers. That she had access to the entire house was something, but it was a hollow victory; it was too easy.

Feeling somewhat defeated, she decided to go back upstairs. On the way back up, she noticed a lock box set into the wall near the foot of the stairs, which appeared to be the right size to hold keys. But the box itself either required a combination or its own key to open it.

Well, she had access to a workshop with every conceivable tool, so it shouldn't pose too much of an obstacle for her to pry it open.

_Later_, she decided.

The growling from her stomach signaled it was time to take a break. So far, she hadn't found anything that posed a threat, so she decided to have breakfast. If she wanted to keep going, she needed to eat. Besides, there was no way of knowing when she'd have another chance. So, breakfast.

And coffee. _Strong_ coffee.

Coffee was soon brewing and she was preparing a bowl of instant oatmeal. Everything was sealed and didn't appear tampered with and had the usual brand names. After a few tentative smells, bites and sips, she figured it was safe enough and dug in.

As she ate, her mind began reflecting on who may have been responsible. Unfortunately, as fast as her mind brought up suspects, there were just as quickly dismissed. This didn't feel like anyone at the Agency; they wouldn't go to this much trouble for her, they'd just put her in a cell or a box. In fact, this couldn't be Agency at all. There was no protocol for this kind of treatment except for high-value informants. Even then, there would be a debriefing, paperwork, a protective detail; some sort of formal notification.

_If I was an informant_, she lamented. She was a whistle-blower. _Whistle-blower. _Two words that were meant to make people feel ashamed, even if they did the right thing. Even though she blew her whistle through the right channels, she still blew the whistle on her former colleagues, which was why this couldn't be Agency business. You silenced whistle-blowers by threatening—or administering—prison or death, not give them first-class accommodations in the middle of nowhere. _More like having a bag thrown over your head, shackled, drugged and put on a plane to god knows where, stripped naked and kept in a cold bare cell in the middle of nowhere, _she shuddered.

On the other hand, this sounded like something Hirsch could do. Dr. Albert Hirsch, former head of SRD—yeah _Doctor,_ she thought disgustedly._ Maybe this was some new interrogation technique? No, that didn't scan. _She didn't feel like she was in a drug-induced fantasy land; it felt real.

In fact, all she felt was confused, and any fear was fading and being replaced with curiosity. If the good doctor wanted to break her, she knew he could pull it off faster, easier and cheaper than... this. Whoever—or whatever, let's not be narrow-minded—put her here had made an enormous effort to make her feel right at home; right down to the preferred style of underwear in the panty drawer and her favorite brand of coffee in the kitchen cupboard. It was odd, disturbing, but hardly the kind of mind fucking Hirsch was known for inflicting on others.

The more she considered the possibility it was Hirsch, the more she rejected it for the simple fact that he wouldn't even consider _making_ an effort to make _anyone_ comfortable; in fact, just the opposite. His specialty was building assassins through behavior modification. Besides, he was spending the rest of his life in a Federal Prison.

She shook her head. The day had barely begun, and she knew she was in for a very long one. She pushed aside all her questions and fears and ate.

Later, after setting the dishes in the sink, her next step was to take a better look around outside. Maybe if she saw more of the ground, she might have a better idea of where she was and come up with a plan. With no maps, she'd have to be careful not to get lost since this house meant food, water and shelter.

As she gripped the door knob, she was suddenly hit with a wave of dizziness and an unpleasant taste in her mouth. It was an odd sick burning taste. But, just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone—like a moment of deja vu. She rested her head against the door, keeping a white-knuckle grip on the door knob for support, and took several deep breaths.

Worried that she might have actually been drugged, Pamela went back to the sink and carefully checked the coffee cup and bowl. Neither smelled odd, nor was there any indication of anything other than food in the dishes.

Back at the door, her hand once again rested on the knob while she ran another internal check. She felt fine, her stomach was full, her head was clear, and there was still no sign of trouble. _Okay, here we go. _With a deep breath, she turned the knob, was greeted by a gentle cool breeze, and carefully ventured out.

A wood deck extended around the house which, from her look up, appeared to be carved into the hill and had full exposure on one side. It was like someone had blended a rustic log cabin into the surrounding hillside. The mirror-like coating on the windows gave the home a high-tech element to its design. This explained the unusual layout and lack of windows on the lower levels; the entire garage/storage area was underground and half the house was inside the hill.

The entire house was earth-bermed; it used the surrounding dirt and rock as a natural insulator, which in turn reduced the energy required to heat or cool the interior. A long earth-colored cobblestone ramp near the kitchen door led down to a solid-looking metal garage door that was painted to blend in with the rock face.

It occurred to her that even with the wood deck and windows, the house would be difficult to spot from the air. Someone would have to know exactly what to look for.

A well-maintained dirt road led off into the forest, winding out of view. It was possible that she could simply hike or drive out of here. _Could I? _She wondered. _Would it be that easy? Maybe. Then again, maybe not._

She crouched down to examine the stone. There was nothing remarkable about it; it was just garden variety cobblestone available anywhere. The trees were a mix of pines, elms, and a few other types she couldn't name. That did narrow things down to the Northern Hemisphere; the US, Canada, or Europe.

There were no mountains that she could see in any direction—though the surrounding hills obscured the horizon. Assuming that there weren't any mountains near by, that could narrow down her location even more, but she was starting to get ahead of herself. So many questions were flying through her head. _What the hell is going on? How did I get here? Who brought me here and why? _Her eyes closed and took a deep breath. _Pull yourself together Pam. Don't panic, don't lose focus._

Maybe she was being tortured. Even though she was placed in a comfortable home with food, water, clothing, entertainment and vehicles, she was isolated with no means of contacting the outside world or contact with anyone. Maybe she really was being held prisoner, except the prison wasn't the house, but the surrounding area. For all she knew, she could be in the middle of Virginia or Russia.

It was information deprivation—she had no idea where she was, had no links to the outside world and had no one to talk to. There was no one to threaten her, but no one to comfort her.

The rest of the world may as well not exist.


	3. Reconnaissance

Title: Retrospection

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Science-Fiction

Summary: "It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster."

Rating: T

Characters: David Webb/Jason Bourne, Pamela Landy, others.

**Reconnaissance **

_The rest of the world may as well not exist._

That thought didn't sit well with her—it didn't sit well with her at all.

No, she wasn't going to let the thought drag her down, not if she wanted to survive and get out of this situation intact. She very quickly snapped out of her depression with a very resounding-- _No! The rest of the world is still there. Now, get a grip on yourself Pam and work the problem._

Again, she tried to remember what happened before she woke up.

Her last clear memory was being in Washington D.C. She just finished her third day testifying for the Intelligence sub-committee on the need to have accountability in Intelligence gathering, citing Treadstone—later known as Blackbriar—as examples of black ops run amok. The session had gone well, and the responses from the Senators and Intelligence officials present were positive overall. She had no illusions about how long the process would take though, and therefore took her time. The current administration wasn't going to play ball, but with the way the year has been going, she had no doubts the next one would.

Pam had just spoken to her friend and former assistant Tom Cronin that she was on the way to Union Station and would arrive in time for dinner with him and his family.

She was... walking... to the lobby. It was the end of the day... she was going... _shit. _She brought her hands to her face and shook her head.

The rest of the memory after pocketing her phone is hazy. _No, not hazy, _she realized_, it just wasn't there_.

She let out a breath and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. Her hand felt something solid and small in the left pocket. Pulling it out, it was a key. _Son of a..._

Pamela ran back inside the house and down to the lock box set into the wall. Amazingly, the key did fit the lock, and inside were indeed keys. _Either_ _there's a supreme being watching over me or whoever put that key there is a real wise-ass. _Besides the set with the Toyota logo, there were several other sets. Two of the other sets clearly belonged to the SnowCat and snow mobile, but there were others that had nothing to do with the house or the vehicles and were marked with symbols.

Intrigued, she stuffed her jacket pockets with the other keys, closed the lid, then got in the truck and turned on the ignition. The garage door opener was integrated into the rear-view mirror and with the door opened, she started the engine. The answering sound was the muted clatter of a diesel.

After a few false starts—she hadn't driven a manual transmission car in years—she was able to drive the truck up and out of the underground garage and onto the dirt road. Though the road was wide and well maintained, she drove at a slow pace.

Thick forest covered both sides, the road winded and eventually opened up to reveal a fantastic vista of the lake she had seen from her bedroom window The road lead to a boat house and continued beyond into the forest toward the hills.

Similar in décor to the house, the boat house was set right out on the lake. It stood roughly two stories tall, with a third lighthouse-style tower that extended above the roof with a dome. The main floor was roughly forty feet wide by a hundred feet long. At least half the structure extended out over the water.

Next to the house was a concrete boat launching ramp. A large garage door opened into the ground level, which housed a Jet Ski, a motor boat, a sail boat and a small dingy. Set into the walls were various tools, supplies, fishing and safety gear. A stair case led upstairs to a spacious loft-style living room containing a fireplace, a stereo, some comfortable furniture—wood flooring and sheepskin rugs—and a small kitchenette. A full bathroom with a spacious shower were set in a corner. A large set of bay windows faced the water. A winding stair case led up to a small observatory with a telescope and touchscreen computer.

Back in the truck, she turned on the radio and again scanned for any radio transmissions, finding nothing but static. The truck had a GPS navigation system, but was disappointed to find that though it displayed a topographical map of the area, there was nothing displayed beyond a radius of twenty miles and nothing she could do would make it display coordinates.

Never the less, the map was informative. Iconic symbols were used to denote "Home" and "Boat House" on the map. It also marked several hiking trails, some other landmarks, and three more locations: an electricity symbol, a water symbol and what looked like a well with steam rising from it. She pulled out the keys in her pockets—two sets had corresponding symbols. She would check them all.

The next closest stop was less than a mile away: the "water" location.

She arrived at a shed with a single door. There were large pipes that she could see underwater that led underground near the door.

"Water" obviously denoted water supply.

One of the keys on the corresponding ring unlocked the door; which revealed a long staircase that led down. The lighting was hooked up to a motion sensor, and clicked on automatically. Like in the hallway at the house, warm LED lighting lined both bottom corners of the stairway.

The stairway led to another door, which opened into a cavern-like room that housed pipes, pumps, filters and other equipment, all automated by a computer control center at the front of the room.

Unlike the house and boat house, the control system computers consisted of two small form factor PCs with standard wired keyboards, mice and two large widescreen LCD monitors. She sat down at one and checked out the GUI. Both monitors were displaying flow process diagrams, which took up most of the screens. After studying the diagrams, she realized this facility not only supplied water, but also treated waste water—one handling water filtering the other waste treatment.

The keyboards had no Super key. They used some Windows-like desktop that she wasn't familiar with. The main menu button had a cyberpunk-like radiation symbol, clicking on it displayed a list of installed software. She brought up a Terminal window with a prompt:

proc-ctrl1wutil:~$

She recognized the prompt—it belonged to a Unix operating system—and tried a few simple commands.

proc-ctrl1wutil:~$ uptime

9:19:01 up 0 day, 11:19, 2 users, load average: 0.25, 0.11, 0.23

_That's odd. Either the equipment was brought online eleven hours ago or this terminal was booted up... --_she quickly did the math—_at ten o'clock last night? Bedtime?_

proc-ctrl1wutil:~$ date

Tue Jan 1 09:20:04 EDT 2000

_January 2000?_ The last date she clearly remembered was Friday, May 23, 2008. _Either someone didn't set the clock or deliberately set it to the start of the year. Why would someone not want me to know the exact date? Well, I definitely can't rely on the system clock._

proc-ctrl1wutil:~$ ls

ExamplesbinDesktop

proc-ctrl1wutil:~$ cd /

proc-ctrl1wutil:/$ ls

bin dev initrd lib mnt root sys var

boot etc lost+found opt sbin tmp vmlinuz

cdrom home .old media proc srv usr

proc-ctrl1wutil:/$ uname -r

2.6.22-14-generic

proc-ctrl1wutil:/$

_Linux, not Unix_ she corrected herself; the string of numbers was a version of a Linux kernel. That made sense; freely distributable and untraceable since there's no proprietary license. It's also a very adaptable, stable and secure computing platform.

She wasn't much of a computer user, but she had enough training and knowledge to know her way around. She tried a few more commands.

proc-ctrl1wutil:/$ ifconfig

eth0 Link encap:Ethernet HWaddr 00:10:C6:D0:28:8F

inet addr: Bcast: Mask:

inet6 addr: fe80::210:c6ff:fed0:288f/64 Scope:Link

UP BROADCAST RUNNING MULTICAST MTU:1500 Metric:1

RX packets:820421 errors:0 dropped:0 overruns:0 frame:0

TX packets:750826 errors:0 dropped:0 overruns:0 carrier:0

collisions:0 txqueuelen:100

RX bytes:179064409 (170.7 MB) TX bytes:66903996 (63.8 MB)

Base address:0x8000 Memory:c0240000-c0260000

lo Link encap:Local Loopback

inet addr: Mask:

inet6 addr: ::1/128 Scope:Host

UP LOOPBACK RUNNING MTU:16436 Metric:1

RX packets:245 errors:0 dropped:0 overruns:0 frame:0

TX packets:245 errors:0 dropped:0 overruns:0 carrier:0

collisions:0 txqueuelen:0

RX bytes:21664 (21.1 KB) TX bytes:21664 (21.1 KB)

If she remembered networking concepts correctly, was a non-routeable IP address, so either the computer is networked on its own private network, or connected to a router. She noted the IP address and tried pinging a common web site.

proc-ctrl1wutil:/$ ping .com

From icmp_seq=2 Destination Net Unreachable

From icmp_seq=3 Destination Net Unreachable

She stopped the repeating message via a CTRL-C. _So, no Internet access. Or maybe no DNS. _She tried again, using an IP address.

proc-ctrl1wutil:/$ ping

PING () 56(84) bytes of data.

From icmp_seq=2 Destination Net Unreachable

From icmp_seq=3 Destination Net Unreachable

_Okay, no dice. Let's try something else._

proc-ctrl1wutil:/$ cd /usr/bin

proc-ctrl1wutil:/usr/bin$ ls

A long list of program names scrolled down the screen. Some of it she recognized, while others were obviously related to the monitoring and control of the water treatment equipment. She narrowed her search, she was looking for something specific. _Ah ha._

There was one last thing she could try that would determine if there was an Internet connection or not. It had been a very long time, but she was sure the system was still active. Even if it wouldn't let her in, it was a sign that she had some link with the outside world.

proc-ctrl1wutil:/usr/bin$ssh

Several minutes passed, then.

ssh: connect to host port 22: Connection timed out

proc-ctrl1wutil:/usr/bin$

No connection. _Damn._

Before she left, she took an impromptu tour of the facility. The equipment was surprisingly quiet, state-of-the-art and like everything else she had seen appeared new; definitely not older than a few months. Yet, there was something odd. It wasn't the equipment, or the computers.

She inhaled, and that's when it hit her: smell. A water treatment plant should have some sort of odd or unpleasant smell—or at least she thought so. This plant smelled... new. On the other hand, if this place was constructed only a few months ago and she was the first one to actually _live_ here, then there wouldn't be any waste water to treat. Yet, she filed away that little tidbit into her memory.

_It means something._

Her next stop would be the power plant which, according to the computer-driven map, was about ten miles away. Back behind the wheel, she continued on the road deep into the forest, again at a slow pace careful not to risk damaging the truck and necessitating a long walk back. While driving, she sighted what she hoped would be the highest point—a hill top—stopped and got out.

She hiked up to the top. It was a clear day and there were no mountains, and forest and hills stretched beyond in every direction well beyond the horizon with no signs of civilization.

There were no radio towers, watch towers, or water towers. She saw steam/smoke rising from a spot not too far away (the power plant). There were no perimeter fences either, but no other roads. No rivers or streams that she could see either. The lake was likely being feed by an underground spring.

Back in the truck, she kept going, and finally stops at the location; the road ended with thick forest and vegetation that a truck couldn't get through. If she wanted to escape, she'd have to go on foot, and then for god only knows how far and for how long; without a map or knowing her location, that could be fatal.

There were three other buttons on the HomeLink transmitter. The third one opened the main door, beyond was a long ramp that led her underground to a cavernous room. Inside were yet more pipes, pumps and other machinery that apparently generated electricity; a geothermal power plant.

A computer control center, nearly identical in layout to the one at the water facility, was online. Only this one was greater in complexity. Several monitors, switches, gauges and dials lined several control panels set in a semi-circle around her. Fully automated, it had manual backups and redundant systems in case of failure. On the main menu was that odd stylized radiation symbol again. _Could it be a corporate logo?_ It was nothing she had ever seen before. No criminal or terrorist organization, company or government used a symbol like that. Maybe it was part of the operating system.

As with the computers in the water plant, it ran the same operating system and was pre-loaded with the same basic set of software. The command-prompt was virtually identical.

proc-ctrl1putil:~$

Pamela began to figure out the naming scheme. "proc-ctrl1" meant Process Control 1, "putil" meant Power Utility. The IP address scheme was non-routable, and it appeared that each location's IP range started with 1. 10 is probably the house, 20 the boat house, 30 the water treatment plant, and 40 the power plant. What about 1-9? Could they be networked together? This time, she pinged the IP address of the computer at the water treatment facility.

proc-ctrl1putil:~$ ping

PING () 56(84) bytes of data.

64 bytes from : icmp_seq=1 ttl=249 time=23.2 ms

64 bytes from : icmp_seq=2 ttl=249 time=56.4 ms

64 bytes from : icmp_seq=3 ttl=249 time=29.9 ms

64 bytes from : icmp_seq=4 ttl=249 time=64.2 ms

64 bytes from : icmp_seq=5 ttl=249 time=22.7 ms

_So they are networked together. Which means there may be some sort of gateway or central hub, maybe back at the house or somewhere else._

She tried a few other addresses, and tried to log into some of them via Telnet or SSH, but was blocked. But it did answer one important question; the facilities and houses were all networked together. Considering the distances between them and the fact that there there were no wireless technology in use, meant they were using Fiber Optic or some kind of telecom-based circuit; which was expensive to do privately. It also reinforced the idea that maybe there is a link to the outside world, but it's blocked by a firewall. If she can find the firewall and bypass it, she might be able to send a call out for help.

But, again, she was getting ahead of herself. She needed to finish checking what was on the map. Her next stop was the "steam" location—which turned out to be conveniently located near the power station. She had a pretty good idea of what it was, but didn't dare make any assumptions until she saw it for herself.

Grabbing a flash light from the truck bed tool box, she soon found a cave opening in the side of another hill. The only sign of man were the man made steps carved into the stone and soft LED lighting as she went through the passage, which twisted and turned and led deeper underground.

Within minutes, she started to feel a rise in the temperature and felt moisture; like a natural sauna. Finally, she arrived at a fairly sized cavern that was barely seven or eight feet high and little larger than a typical living room. The cave floor was dominated by a large underground pool. Steam rose from the naturally heated clear water. A set of waterproof cases were neatly stacked on the ground away from the pool. Inside were towels, sleeping bags, pads and other camping gear.

At this point, she had to laugh. The laughter became uncontrollable, causing her to brace herself against the cave wall with her hand and fight for breath. _ Oh, this is just too much. This place is the perfect romantic hideaway or vacation spot. _ The pool definitely looked pretty tempting to the tall blond, who had been torn between anxiety and curiosity since she woke up. This was definitely one of the most unique places she had ever been to in her life.

Unfortunately, the hot spring, geothermal power plant, lack of mountains and fresh water lake only made finding her whereabouts more confusing. This had to be a private plot of land somewhere. There was nowhere she had heard of in the US that was deserted like this with these unique geological resources. Only two or three geographical areas were anywhere near right: the Western United States, Canada, Iceland, and eastern Russia. Of the three, Russia and Canada seemed most likely—in that order.

Even so, it must have taken years and a sizable amount of capital to develop the area; let alone keep it quiet. This only further reinforced the idea that it wasn't the Agency; she would've heard at least a rumor about this place. Or any government for that matter; they had no need for such a place and wouldn't waste their time and money. That only left private individuals and corporations.

Only one private citizen she had any connection to came to mind: Gretkov.

Founder, former owner and CEO of Gretkov Oil and Gas. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Gretkov had bought his oil leases with twenty million dollars in stolen CIA seed money courtesy of Ward Abbot. Together, they conspired to take out anyone who got in the way; starting with Vladmir Neski and ending with two of her field agents.

And a young woman named Marie Kreutz. A woman shot by a sniper whose bullet was meant for her boyfriend: David Webb, or Jason Bourne before he finally regained his identity.

If so, it made sense to a degree; the house, the utilities, the road, the equipment—he could easily afford it all. Eastern Russia was vast and largely undeveloped; it would be relatively easy and cheap to find a suitable location. It was the right kind of weather and the right kind of plant life.

Except, _if_ Gretkov was responsible, what would he want with her? They never even met. The only time she ever _saw_ him was from a distance when he was arrested by the FSB in Moscow nearly four years ago.

Between the Agency and his trial, he had plenty of enemies and problems of his own to deal with; it's highly unlikely that he had even _heard_ of her. Besides, the last she heard he was imprisoned in a Labor camp for the next twenty years, and the Russian government was working to bring other charges against him.

Why would he treat her this way? The short answer was: there was no reason to. He had nothing to gain. Hell, he and Ward Abbott stole from the Agency, from _her_, costing her several good field personnel and innocent lives. If the Russian authorities didn't go after him, the Agency damn well would have.

Besides, everything was marked in _English,_ including the power and water equipment. _So much for __that theory. _

_Another suspect eliminated._

Another thing occurred to her; she had no idea how much time had passed between her memories of D.C. and now; she couldn't even be absolutely sure what _year_ it was.

_Okay, new theory. It's not Agency or Gretkov, but someone new that I've never met or don't remember meeting. That person or persons for reasons unknown kidnapped me and is holding me here against my will. I was given drugs that induced short term memory loss. _

_But, that doesn't explain the empty clothes hamper_, she pointed out to herself._ Why wasn't there a note? If I'm a prisoner, why leave me here alone with all this equipment? Why give me free reign within the area? Why not simply dump me in a bed fully dressed or stark naked in a dark cell, _she wondered.

Of course, she had an answer, and it made her shudder. _They stripped me bare, dressed me, and provided me with everything I'd need to increase my sense of isolation and disorientation._

No matter how comfortable they tried to make her, she was dependent on whoever brought her here for survival, which meant they have power over her. They effectively stripped her of her independence. That was a pretty clear message in and of itself.

And that really pissed her off. She stalked back out into the open air to the white Toyota pickup.

Even without a detailed map or communications, she was certain that she'd find some way to send out a call for help or escape.

Back at the truck, she paused at the open door and rested her forehead against the top of the door frame. She shrugged off the anger she felt—anger wasn't going to help her—and kept thinking this through.

_If there are no roads that lead in and out of the area, then that means everything must have been brought in by a float plane or helicopter. There was no airstrip, but the lake is long enough to handle a water landing—_

Pam's eyes suddenly lit up in a jolt of inspiration. _The lake. A freshwater lake! A large, long and narrow lake! _There was a world atlas in the library. It was a long-shot, but if she could match up the contours of the lake with one on the atlas, she'd know where she was.

She got in and drove back to the house. With the truck left idling, she ran inside and upstairs to the library. She grabbed the world atlas and from a nearby desk some writing pads, tracing paper and pens.

Then, she drove back to the boat house at the lake and settled herself up in the loft and laid out her materials; it was the best place to work since she'd have the actual lake in front of her as a reference point. Before she did, she made a tracing of the lake from the electronic map on the truck's GPS unit.

She started with Russia, finding that the atlas was highly detailed, and got to work. This was what she was good at; analyzing information, finding patterns, finding the truth.

Several times, she forced herself to take a break, had a snack, and went outside to take a closer look at the lake. If she wanted to keep going, she had to pace herself. She definitely couldn't deny it was beautiful. Picture perfect. There was a sandy beach right nearby perfect for laying out in the sun.

_Back to work. _Back in the loft, she settled back down in front of the tracings, notepads and atlas. That's how she spent her first day.

Russia was a bust. Unless the lake was artificial, there were no matches. She checked Canada, then the U.S., then Iceland, Greenland, even the British Islands and Europe. She struck out again and again. By late afternoon, she had exhausted every landmass she could think of.

_Maybe the lake really was artificial._

She should take a walk around the lake, go out in the boat. By then it was getting close to dinner time. So, she gathered her supplies, climbed into the truck, and drove back up to the house.

The fridge had a good white wine; she poured a glass and after looking around the kitchen and fridge, she decided to cook something simple: spaghetti and meat sauce—one of the few things that she could cook quickly and well. _A little music—_she turned on the radio and choose some Jazz.

As she ate, she reflected on what she found out. Everything was self-contained, automated and expensive. There were no other signs of anyone watching her or inside the house or anywhere else. There were no threats of any kind. That things were new puzzled her. What about that odd spell she had this morning? She mentally shrugged off her questions and by strength of will ate.

For the sake of her sanity, she needed to make some rules for herself.

From now until she finished dinner, cleaned the dishes and put everything away, unless something came up, she wouldn't think about the problem. There was no need to hurry and even if lives were in danger, she resigned herself to the conclusion that there was nothing she could do.

Since it looked like she was going to be stuck here for a while, she'd need to establish a daily routine. The most important person she needed to look after was herself. That meant that she'd get a full eight hours sleep. In the morning, she'd get up, have breakfast, get out and walk. She'd drive out and search those facilities top to bottom. At certain times of the day, she'd stop, take a break and unwind. There was time, and working around the clock could cause her to waste too much time.

Her biggest break was that her basic needs were already taken care of; food, water and shelter. Thanks to the generous supply of reading material, music, and television, not to mention watercraft and hiking trails, there was plenty to keep her mind occupied. The supplies she had would only last for a few months without rationing; which meant someone would have to show up to deliver more supplies.

Unless they did an air supply drop. What about garbage disposal? That was of little concern but...

Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, she'd pack a lunch and go back out to more closely inspect the power and water treatment plants. There was still the main network hub (if it existed), which wasn't marked on the map. They may provide clues or some means to get word out. They were automated facilities, so maybe there's some sort of outside communications to alert someone if there was a problem; she might be able to tap into that somehow.

And of course, when her "host" showed up, she'd be ready.


	4. Paradigm

Title: Retrospection

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Science-Fiction

Summary: "It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster."

Rating: T

Characters: David Webb/Jason Bourne, Pamela Landy, others.

**Paradigm**

Some streams of sunlight shown almost clear to the bottom of the lake. In the center, a woman clad in a black and dark gray wetsuit was floating on the surface—arms and legs stretched out. Clear, clean water flowed over and under the dark fabric, across pale skin and through long blond hair.

With a sudden blur of motion, she was moving.

Stroke-stroke-breathe, stroke-stroke-breathe. Over and over in harmonious repetition, lungs inhaled and exhaled air while arms and legs moved together in a front crawl, propelling her through the water with practiced ease. The familiar pull of muscle felt good, as did the slightly frigid water. The wetsuit Pam wore kept most of cold at bay, leaving her head, hands and feet exposed.

In the water, there was nothing to focus on but breathing and moving. The only sounds were the splashing of the water, the beating of her heart, and the measured movement of air. A well-honed rhythm that cast aside all her thoughts, questions and fears as she neared the shore.

One past time that she always found enjoyment and solace in was swimming. From the first day that she learned how to swim in a lake when she visited her Aunt and Uncle up in Wisconsin, Pam was hooked.

Every summer until she graduated high school, she always visited that lake—either floating out in the water, or laying out on the dock, and letting everything else just slip away.

Like most things in life, she excelled at it. When she entered high school, she got a spot on the swim team. They did well, moving up into the state finals her first year. It carried her through college, courtesy of a scholarship, and through her tenure in the CIA.

In an environment of politics, mistrust and sexism, she had to fight tooth and nail for her job every step of the way. From her first assignment in South America to her last years in Langley as Deputy Director, she had to put up with a lot more flack than men did.

Unless she had a job that kept her going for days, she always found time to swim.

Swimming was goal-driven and competitive; so was the CIA. But unlike the latter, there was no one to face down in the former. There was no intelligence to gather, no paperwork to fill out, and no plots to stop in their tracks. It put things into perspective—kept her grounded and sane when her job was at times anything but.

Today wasn't any different—circumstances aside—as she rose from the water and peeled off her wetsuit, revealing a black two-piece swimsuit. She had a job to do. With a businesslike confidence, she strode into the boat house, rinsed and hung the wetsuit to dry, stripped off her swimsuit and got into the shower.

The hot water warmed her extremities, leaving her energized. Her motions were economical. Shampoo and conditioner for her long hair, body wash for the rest of her body—she was in and out in fifteen minutes. _Back to work._

Dried and dressed in a blue v-neck sweater, dark slacks and boots, she got into the truck and drove back to the house. Stopping briefly in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, black with cream, she headed upstairs to the library.

Nearly a week had passed since she woke up in bed and it showed. The tables in the library were now littered with notepads, books, maps and papers. What she would've had a dozen people to cover she was doing alone.

On a nearby wall were names, dates and other tidbits of information she recalled from memory. A lot of time was spent remembering as much as she could about her movements leading up to her last memories of D.C. Anything that might give her a lead.

Unfortunately, she was fresh out of suspects. Barring any new information, whoever brought her here was no one she had met before, or heard of. So, she shifted her focus to the area she was now living in.

Her best lead was still identifying the lake, and she was now spending an hour each day carefully studying every map she could lay her eyes on. But, Pam was starting to feel that it would be a dead-end too. She had taken out the motorboat to tour the lake and parts of the shoreline appeared man-made. What was there was meant mostly to prevent erosion, but the water was too clear and there was too little wildlife for it to be natural—making it very likely that the lake was artificial.

So, her new focus was on the computer network that linked all the facilities together. Somewhere was the router—which had the IP address . So far, she had confirmed that none of the locations contained the router. It was likely the router was somewhere that was not marked on the map and she did not have access to. So for the past five days, she searched—on foot, by truck and boat—the lake, the road and the hiking trails for anything that might indicate a hidden entrance, trail or road.

Given her lack of information about the land beyond the twenty-mile radius on the truck's GPS map, she did very little in the way of hiking beyond that point. Some areas were nearly impassable on foot, while other areas threatened to take her too far away from known trails and landmarks—making the danger of getting lost too great.

During this time, she also developed a very careful schedule. In the mornings, she'd alternate between jogging to the lake and back and swimming. Some mornings, she'd stay in, have breakfast, and exercise in the evenings. One afternoon, she laid out on the deck and sunbathed. Since whoever put her here expected her to relax, she put on the facade of a woman on vacation.

But, she varied her daily routine—partly for her safety and partly in the hope that she'd catch something or someone in the act. The cluttered state of the library that held her notes and hand-drawn maps was deliberate; she was neat and meticulous. As were the small pieces of clear scotch tape and flour carefully placed at the various doorways and drawers.

Unless someone was carefully watching her and avoiding her markers, no one had gone inside the house while she was gone. None of her notes and materials were missing or tampered with. A careful inspection of the crawl spaces, outlets, lights, and various nooks and crannies that someone could hide a bug revealed nothing. Logically, rationally, she found no evidence that anyone was watching her. Yet the feeling lingered—she just couldn't shake it.

But, she had to ignore it if she wanted to stay sane.

In a survival situation, panic, frustration, anger, fear and despair were her worst enemies. Her one major break was that she had everything she needed and she took full advantage.

Last night, she slept in the loft after soaking for a few hours in the hot springs. Today, she was going to lay out on the deck again after spending a few hours reviewing her notes for any new clues. That afternoon, she planned to stay in and watch some television, then have dinner up on the outdoor balcony.

Familiarity was another feeling she couldn't shake. The place felt familiar, yet she was absolutely certain she had never been here before. All she knew was that whoever put her here knew her. Intimately.

That scared her for the mere fact that she hadn't been intimate with anyone for years, and no one, not even her best friend and former assistant Tom Cronin, knew her that well. Some things just didn't show up in a file no matter how thorough it was.

Pam set her coffee cup down on the table and did a once-over of the room. Everything was still exactly where it was. From a pile of papers, she pulled out a hand-drawn network diagram.

The House, Boat House, Water Plant, and Power Plant were scrawled with their corresponding IP addresses, which overlaid her original sketch of the map from the truck's GPS. She had studied it over and over. Originally, she assumed that the house contained the router, but through a trial-and-error process of disconnecting each site from their network cabinet and pinging the address, she had eliminated each one.

_The house, the boat house, water plant, power plant... Diesel fuel and unleaded gasoline are kept in underground storage tanks at both houses. All the appliances are electric, along with the heating, so no natural gas._

_Where could it be? What am I missing? We've got a a boat house, power and water treatment plants, hiking trails, a lake, hot spr--_

"Hot springs," she uttered aloud. _It has electricity_, she reasoned._ It has electricity, and it's close to the power plant. _She let out a breath. _It's the only place that is marked on the map that has no computer equipment—that I noticed. _

The hot springs were in a cave, underground, with water and humidity. Water and electricity didn't mix, so naturally, she assumed that there was nothing there. But she never searched the cave—the cave passage just lead to the springs and, oddly enough, nowhere else.

_Caves usually have multiple passages. Some close up, but others open up over time._

At the very least, it was a possibility she'd need to check out. To avoid any possible suspicion, she'd slowly make her way back there tomorrow instead of tonight. If the network hub was there, the doorway may be hidden...

...which made it slow-going as she carefully inspected both sides of the cave wall and floor for signs of a hatch or doorway, hitting the stone with the heel of her hand every few feet for signs that it was not stone.

It was early evening by the time she got back there. She started her day swimming, and stayed at the boat house all day, laying out in the sun or using the motor boat to perform another tour of the lake. Then, after a light dinner up in the loft, she drove out to the hot springs.

It had taken much longer than usual to get to the room itself, and now standing in front of the pool, her search had turned up nothing so far. Her neck and back ached from craning her head around and bending down; the cave passage was at least two hundred feet in length. The aches and pains made the pool look very inviting. _Oh, what the hell, it's not like I've been in a hurry. _So, she shut off her flashlight, set it down on one of the storage crates, shed her clothes and immersed herself in the naturally heated water.

As the tension melted away, her eyes wondered around, taking in the soft lighting, the stone, the storage crates stacked neatly against the wall—

_The crates. I only searched the crates, not what was behind them. _She kept her eyes wandering before finally closing them and willing herself to relax. _Patience. Save your strength. Don't rush into this._

Dried and dressed, she examined the stack of crates. One stack of three was against a corner of the room at shoulder level. _That looks like a good place to start. _The area it covered was tall and wide enough for a person to get through.

_Okay._

She lifted the topmost crate and placed it on the floor, nothing but stone greeted her. Then she saw it.

A seam, almost invisible, stood out against the dark stone.

With the remaining two crates out of the way, she hit the area with her hand, it felt different. Knocking on it, there was a hollow sound. _Ah ha._ She looked for a latch or some kind of release mechanism. Flashlight in hand, she carefully examined the seam, which revealed a rectangular outline. It was definitely large enough for a person to get through.

She pressed and pried against the false stone. One of the protrusions yielded her to hand, a latch. _Bingo. _It opened inward to reveal another passageway, lit by the same soft lighting that lit the rest of the cave.

_Down the rabbit hole._

Like with the main cave passage, it twisted and turned, only upward instead of downward, and soon opened up to a height that she could comfortably stand up in. After walking what felt like at least a good quarter mile, the passageway ended at a steel door with the same commercial BiLock lock that she'd seen on the other facilities.

She tried the knob, which was cool to the touch, and predictably didn't budge. She fished a ring of keys out of her pocket—the one with the electrical symbol. On the ring were a set of keys that corresponded to the various locks; doors and network cabinet. Unlike the other sets, there was a second BiLock key that was cut differently from the other. It didn't fit any of the locks in the power plant or anywhere else.

Her pulse quickened. Someone or something was behind this door. She pressed an ear against the metal surface; nothing but silence. Willing herself to take deep breaths, she slid the key into the lock, and turned—the key fit the lock. Pam slowly turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

A long hallway painted a functional white and lit with harsh white fluorescent lighting greeted her eyes. Electrical conduits lined the ceiling, a breaker panel was on the wall next to the door she just came through. Along one side, on an exposed cable tray, she saw the telltale thick black plastic and orange woven insulation of fiber optic cabling.

Her soft-soled sneakers made little sound as she walked to another door, which was unlocked, and opened it.

The familiar hum of cooling fans and hard disks greeted her ears. It was a server room, filled with rack-mounted network equipment; switches, servers, and uninterruptible power supplies. One side had a bank of network cabinets that were locked. The opposite wall had breaker panels and conduits which lined the ceiling. At the other end of the room was yet another door.

_This is getting old._

This door lead into a comfortable office-like room with a workstation, desk and computer chair. With the door shut, she was once again cloaked in silence.

There were windows that showed a spectacular view of the countryside, along with a runway and helipad connected by a short paved road. The workstation monitor was currently in power saving mode. There were two other doors; one lead to a bathroom and one led outside. Once outside, she realized that this room was located on the other side of the hill near the power plant, maybe a half mile or so away.

She mentally kicked herself. _It was here all this time._

A brief hike revealed a hangar devoid of aircraft, but plenty of equipment to handle the servicing and refueling of various types. There was power and everything appeared to be in good condition. She went back to the office, sat down at the chair and moved the mouse. Unlike the other computers, this one displayed a weather map and radar.

_Now we're getting somewhere._

She bought up a terminal window, checked the clock and made a classic double-take.

ctrl-twrastrip:~$date

Sun June 20 18:36:20 GMT 2094

The following words out of her mouth expressed the shock and surprise she felt. "What the fuck?" Pam swore.

_Two-thousand ninety-four? That's not... no way. _"No way."

In a fit of frustration, she bolted from her chair and ran outside. "I've had enough! Show yourselves right now! Do you hear me?! Are you listening to me?! I'm not playing your game anymore!"

Silence answered. No one was there. She closed her eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. _Stupid stupid stupid. _An obviously mis-set clock wasn't going to rattle her, and finding this place was a victory. _There's a runway and a hangar, and that means aircraft have landed and taken off from here. There must be a radio. Find it and I can call for a ride out of here._

"Pam?"

A quiet voice uttered her name, leaving her momentarily frozen with recognition. Somehow, she knew that he was involved. She could feel his presence behind her. He walked up and stood in front of her. Steeling herself for the possibility that it was an illusion, she opened her eyes.

It was David Webb, whom she had once known as Jason Bourne.


	5. Paradigm Shift

Title: Retrospection

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Science-Fiction

Summary: "It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster."

Rating: T

Characters: David Webb/Jason Bourne, Pamela Landy, others.

**Paradigm Shift**

Throughout her life, Pamela Landy had always stubbornly refused to conform to the typical behavior that many men seemed to expect from women, such as breaking down in tears, or suddenly throwing her arms around them.

That being said, part of her wanted to slap the former assassin across the face. Hard. Another part of her really did want to break down into tears in return for some modicum of human contact; but, she wasn't going to break either.

However, none of that meant that she was surprised to see him. In fact, she was tremendously relieved to see _anyone_ after nearly a week of isolation.

So many questions were running through her head, but she couldn't form the words. Instead, she simply stood there and examined the man in front of her that she hadn't seen nor heard from in nearly three years.

His handsome, almost youthful features were much the same as they were when she last saw him in New York City; albeit much healthier than that pale, bloodied and bruised appearance he had acquired after numerous crashes, fights, and a ten story fall into the East River. His hair was starting to gray, yet his eyes seemed a little brighter; as if he had faced down some of his demons and won.

When her eyes found his own, she realized he was scrutinizing her as well. She didn't know whether to be flattered or nervous; well aware that even though she was getting older, she was still considered to be attractive. But, that didn't seem to be what his scrutiny was about.

Finally, she broke the silence. "What are you doing here?"

"I came here to see you," he answered as if he was simply paying an old friend a visit. As if that even began to explain anything. In all fairness, David had never struck her as a conversationalist. On the other hand, the few conversations they shared had taken place when he was dodging Agents intent on killing him or while simultaneously dealing with his newly recovered memory and a debilitating migraine. Plus there had been the whole getting shot and taking an involuntary dip into freezing water part.

Not satisfied with this answer, she tried another question. "Where are we?"

He didn't reply; he looked conflicted.

_Is he a prisoner too? _She wondered.

"What's the last thing you remember before waking up," he asked.

Now that question raised a red flag in her head.Nevertheless, she knew him well enough to know that everything he said and did had a reason behind it; he wasn't the type of man who played games. So the best way to deal with him was to be honest, direct and to the point.

"I was on the Hill in D.C.," she explained, "I just talked to Tom and was heading into the lobby. The next thing I know, I wake up in a strange bed." She watched him as he let her answer sink in. He didn't seem surprised; it was as if he was expecting it._ He knows I have amnesia. "_Do you know about this place?"

"Yes." He said simply.

"You know where we are," A statement, not a question.

"Yes." His eyes broke contact with hers, she thought rather guiltily. _ He's holding something back._

"Am I in danger?" She asked. He seemed reluctant to answer. _Whatever it is, it can't be good._ "Are you in danger?"

He made eye contact with her again. "No. We're not in danger."

"Am I prisoner here?"

He hesitated again. His mouth opened and closed several times as he tried to figure out how to explain. Finally, his frustration ended in a soft but sharp "Fuck it."

When he looked her straight in the eye again, his hesitation was gone. "You're not a prisoner Pam, you're a patient."

Her eyes widened in surprise; her brow furrowed in confusion. "A patient..." _oh god, am I hallucinating,_ "As in a mental patient?"

The thought that this was all an hallucination and that she was actually strapped to a bed somewhere being pumped full of drugs didn't appeal to her in the least.

David quickly addressed that fear. "No, you're not crazy," he reassured her, "And you're not in a psychiatric hospital. You're in a..." The hesitation was back, _why was he having so much trouble explaining? Come on, _she said inwardly, _out with it. _

He must've noticed her impatience because he quickly explained, "Well, I guess a regular hospital."

"A regular hospital," she uttered in disbelief. "Look around you, David, this is an airstrip, not a hospit--"

"This isn't real," he interrupted.

She blinked._ Isn't real? Yeah sure, reality just stopped making sense. "_David..." She said warningly, her expression making it clear that she wasn't in the mood to be jerked around. _What the hell is his play anyway? _She wondered.

In a stronger, surer tone, he continued. "I'm serious. This isn't real; it's a simulated environment running on a computer," he explained patiently. "This whole place is basically a recovery room."

"Recovery," she repeated, letting the meaning of the word sink in, "in recovery from what?"

"Serious life threatening injuries."

_What life threatening injuries? _"Life thre--," she spluttered. "What are you talking about? I'm fine. I feel fine. I've been swimming and jogging every day since I got here. I've had no problems at all. There aren't any signs of injury, or a recent surgery, anywhere on my body. "

"Technically, you haven't even moved." David argued, then gesturing to her, said "this isn't your real body."

Pam scoffed; having heard and dealt with more than her share of lies and deceit.

When she heard Abbott's explanation about what Treadstone was, she knew he was holding something back; even though she was wrong about what it was. When Vosen tried to deflect her questions about Blackbriar under the guise that they were in the middle of an op, she saw right through him.

But, this? _It's not real. _It made them seem perfectly reasonable by comparison.

Yet, his expression and body language said otherwise; he was serious. So, either he knew exactly how to lie to her, or he was the delusional one.

"Bullshit," she declared.

It had to be.

Undeterred, he persisted. "I know how it sounds, but it's the truth. Look, Pam, you're acting like I'm trying to burn you, but I'm just trying to help you here. This place really is a computer simulation, your real body was seriously injured and is healing right now."

It was too much for her to take. "Stop!" She stalked off. "I'm not listening to this anymore."

_What kind of mind-fuck is this?_

David followed her. "Pam," he called out behind her. She started hiking up over the hill in the direction of the geothermal plant.

"I'm going back to the house. When you come up with a better story, feel free to drop by," she called back, not bothering to turn her head.

As she crested the hill, David suddenly appeared in front of her, making her freeze momentarily before continuing on. While unnerving, it was hardly proof of anything. Appearing out of nowhere was one of his many skills.

David blocked her path. "Pam, please. You have to believe me, this isn't real," he pleaded.

Pam wasn't impressed nor moved. "You're not showing me anything I haven't seen before," she replied. "Now get out of my way."

He grabbed her by the arm to try and stop her. _Try_ being the operative word.

The sound echoed across the valley like a mini-thunderclap.

Her slap was so powerful and unexpected that David nearly fell over. Instead, David merely stumbled back a few steps before quickly righting himself to meet her scowling face. His left hand instinctively covered his now reddened cheek.

David's face was a mixture of embarrassment and surprise. The slap came as a surprise to her too; she had never slapped anyone before.

She was angry at herself for losing control like that. _I'm not going to break._

"Pam--" When he reached out again, she took a defensive stance; Pam knew that she might not match his skill in hand-to-hand combat, but she could still make him hurt.

"Don't touch me," she quietly intoned, and kept going.

This time, he didn't follow her.

Dusk had fallen by the time she reached the truck, and it was dark when she got back to the house. The moon was already rising and with no clouds, the sky was totally clear, putting the stars on full display. It was beautiful, but it wasn't enough to break her out of her confusion and frustration as she pulled into the underground garage and went upstairs.

In the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator and poured herself a glass before curling up on the couch in the living room.

Again, she tried to remember what had happened to her in D.C. _Was I kidnapped? Is Webb behind all this?_ She didn't put the act of kidnapping past David, but he couldn't have bankrolled all this. The money in the Zürich safe deposit box couldn't cover a fraction of the costs involved and he didn't have access to any other assets that she knew of.

Her mind wandered back to the conversation they had earlier. Over and over, she replayed it in her head, checking and rechecking to see if she missed something.

_What if he is telling the truth?_

It was a scary thought, but then again, why would he tell her such a crazy story? Assuming then, for a moment, that it was true, how could she really know if this wasn't real? Everything felt real. Yet, she knew it felt wrong.

Familiar and wrong.

The truth was, she really didn't want to know. She was still furious at herself for losing control and tired and aching after spending hours searching and crawling around that damned cave. The hot springs helped, but meeting David had made her tense up again. Right now, she just wanted to calm down and not think for what was left of the day.

A soft knock on the kitchen door derailed that plan. She let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. _Oh go away_, she wanted to say, but got up to answer the door.

As expected, it was David. Her anger lessened when she saw the look on his face; he clearly felt remorseful. His eyes were downcast, but flickered up to meet her own; it was as if a silent apology had been given.

Coming to a decision, she held the open door wider so he could come in, shutting it behind him. He took a look around the kitchen, dining and living area, noting the look of awe on his face. Either he was a great actor, or he clearly hadn't been here before in his life.

"Would you like some wine?" She asked, not knowing what else to say.

He turned to face her and nodded. She took another wine glass out of the cupboard and poured into it the dark red liquid. She set her glass down on the coffee table in front of the fireplace and sat down, gesturing for him to take a nearby chair, pointedly out of arm's reach.

Pam watched as he took a tentative sip. _Not a wine drinker I suppose. _She watched his tongue move inside his mouth and then took a longer sip.

This time, he spoke first. "I woke up on a fishing boat, in the Mediterranean sea near the coast of Marseilles. I was cold, naked, bleeding, and had no idea where I was, who I was, or what had happened to me. That was the first thing I remembered."

"And you're telling me this because I should consider myself lucky I woke up in a warm bed?" She retorted.

"You're very lucky to simply be alive." He shot back. Then his tone softened. "No, I'm telling you because I know how it feels to wake up and not remember."

She let the subject drop for now. There was one question that she has been burning for an answer to for years.

"What happened with Wombosi?"

David let out a breath, closing his eyes, then reopening them. "I didn't kill him. I came close. I brought one of my cover identities to life, found the security company, I even met with the man. I chose his yacht as the strike point. I hid on his boat for five days. I tracked everything; the crew, the food, the fuel. I was in. I was _in_, and I had my gun against the top of his head."

"Then why didn't you kill him?"

"His children." He murmured.

Those two words made her heart skip a beat. "His children?"

"Wombosi's children were with him on his yacht. One of them was resting on top of him, a little girl; and she was awake even though everyone else was asleep. I-- I hesitated..."

She caught on quickly. A puzzle piece had finally fallen into place. _This was what triggered the amnesia, what broke his training_.

There was only one conclusion. "In order to make it look like someone from his own entourage killed him, you would've had to kill all his children too," she realized.

He nodded. "I couldn't do it. So, I got shot twice in the back as I escaped, and fell into the water. Then, I spent the next three weeks piecing things together, which led me back to Paris and to Conklin; who triggered my memories of the failed op. Once I remembered, I told him I quit and walked out."

"Just like that?"

"Not exactly." He admitted. "Conklin had a radio; he already alerted his people. I had to fight my way out. I killed everyone except for Conklin and Nicky who were still in the apartment. I don't know who killed Conklin."

"I do." She said, filling in the blanks. "It was an Treadstone operative code-named Manheim. Ward Abbott ordered it, then he shut down Treadstone. I found out later that Abbott was the one who got the funding to start Blackbriar, then handed the reins over to Vosen and Kramer so he could retire quietly."

She watched him process that bit of information.

"Until you came along," he added.

Pam couldn't help the anger that flitted through her consciousness. Even though three years had passed, she still felt anger and betrayal over what Ward had done. Two good field agents, Marie, Danny Zorn, Irina Neski's parents—all dead over greed. Perpetrated by a man who at one point was her friend and colleague.

"Over money." She could still remember Ward's and David's voices on the tape, how Ward had tried to lay the blame for Marie's death at his feet; to drive him to do what he ultimately did in a final cowardly act. "So senseless." She murmured. "David, I'm--"

His hand come up to stop her. "It wasn't your fault." At least he didn't add that she was just doing her job. Like he was doing his for Treadstone. She knew that it still haunted him as much as the events in Berlin haunted her.

Rationally, she knew that she wasn't responsible for that mess; it was people like Abbott, Hirsh, Vosen and Kramer. People who had their own twisted ideals or personal agendas. It just happened on her watch.

But, that didn't mean she turned off her feelings, not after hearing the tape, nor after reading David's Treadstone induction report. Especially seeing him here, now, in one of the longest conversations they've had so far.

He began to talk about Zurich, about how he and Marie discovered who and what he really was. About their separation for a year, then meeting up again Greece, before going on the run together for the next two years, and finally ending up in India. Then there was Daniels, Spain, Tangiers, Desh, New York, then the next three years running.

When he finished, she asked him about Simon Ross, about what happened to Nicky Parsons.

"She's still alive." He said. Pam was tremendously relieved. "Where she is now, I have no idea though. I don't know what she was doing at the safe house, but she told me where Daniels was and I decided to trust her."

"Why? She ran logistics, and monitored your health. You held a gun to her head and threatened her. Why did she help you?"

"Because she cared. Because she..." David paused, and took a deep breath before continuing. "There was a tape. Of my 'training.' In order for her to do her job, she had to know exactly what I went through. She saw it. It was difficult for her to watch, and every time she saw me, she was reminded of it."

"Anyway, we rushed to Tangier. I hoped that we could intercept and save Daniels. But, I screwed it up."

"A Blackbriar asset named Desh got the drop on us. He detonated a bomb that killed Daniels and knocked me down."

"I know. Vosen's people caught the breach and identified Nicky as the user. He gave the order to have her killed on the spot. I objected, but there was nothing I could do. So, I quit the operation. When I read their file on you, I found out that Vosen lied to me; Daniels was your training officer. I think Vosen and Kramer wanted him and Nicky dead because they were loose ends; exposing Blackbriar to the public may have been merely an excuse to take them out."

"Maybe," he allowed.

She found herself a little more at ease talking to him. After another sip of the wine, she found that she had a few more questions.

"Did you use the Gilberto De Piento passport knowing I'd catch it?"

"I used it knowing that it never went to the grid, which meant it was my best chance of getting through Customs; I didn't know how much time I had before they realized I was still alive. But yes, I also used it hoping you'd catch on before Vosen. When I heard the announcement at the airport, I knew."

They talked long into the evening. He was evasive about what happened in Washington, but he answered her other questions. After a week, it was such a comfort to just talk. The combination of the alcohol and stress finally caused her to doze off.

She woke up on the couch, covered in a blanket.

Her confusion lasted for a moment, then the memories came rushing back. _David was here._ It was both reassuring and disturbing.

"David?" She sat up and looked around the expansive living room.

There was no sign of him.

_Did I dream the whole thing? Could I have been so desperate for company that I hallucinated? No, of course not._

A quick search found the two wine glasses set next to the sink. The bottle of wine was back in the refrigerator. A hand-written note was on the counter.

Pam,

I didn't want to wake you. Be back at six this evening.

I'll find you.

David

_So it wasn't a dream. Then where did he go?_

Though she didn't know why, oddly enough, she was looking forward to seeing him again.


End file.
